


in search of your glory.

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Creampie, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Glove Kink, I'm A Trash Can Not A Trash Can't, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sneaking Around, at least someone's sitting in this throne, feral friday? ahahaha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: He sits her on the throne because of the two of them, she is the closer to royalty.The crystal throne finally gets some use. PWP.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Reader, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 45
Kudos: 237





	in search of your glory.

He sits her on the throne because of the two of them, she is the closer to royalty. Allagan kings may have struck his father’s father’s eyes a Calamity ago, but _she_ was the only one still worth worshipping around here. She makes a small whine of protest low in that pretty throat of hers, and he’s shushing it with his mouth, swallowing it, tasting her annoyance like Reborn Red on his tongue. The Crystal Tower’s throne is a massive crystallized chunk of wasted architecture and she is small and giddy as a child as he grabs her greedily by the belt and thrusts her to him, bringing her ass to the edge of her seat, struggling to find a zipper, latch, _anything_ on the seams of her leather leggings.

“You haven’t even gotten my boots off,” she complains with no bite, threading gloved fingers through his hair. Wiggles her hips to make his life more difficult, as ever.

“Can’t wait,” he pleads against what little bare skin he’s been able to free—her hips, slender, bony, _his._ His fingers catch on a row of clever little latches, and he bites into her with relief, bitter as blood and light as heaven on his tongue. He has her taste memorized better than any aetherical arithmetic, the Baldeisons be damned. Shoves the leggings down to her knees, waylaid only by her damnable boots. Lingers on them, hands curving around her muscled calves, sliding around her slim ankles. But he can _smell_ how wet he has her on this throne, as nostalgic as the saltwater waves of the Isle of Val, more aromatic than the wisteria blooming in the depths of the Crystarium.

He situates her lithe thighs—thighs meant for running malms without stopping, for crushing the windpipe of a wayward guard without a second thought, for torturing him endlessly in stifling crystal rooms with yalms of hesitation and _guilt_ between him and her—on his shoulders and finds home again between them. Attunes himself by biting his apologies into the trembling, jumping flesh of her muscle. She purrs his name— “ _Raha_ , what has gotten _into_ you?” —and arches like a couerl when he noses her soaked (for him? Of all the people on this star?) smalls to the side.

“Krile’s going to be looking for us,” she sighs pointlessly. Her words say one thing and her thighs spreading apart for him say another. He listens to her body language, as he has ever done, an ancient language found between the ink-blotted notes of secondhand accounts of her brilliance. He’s always been good with languages, didn’t need the damned Echo to understand what her pretty pink slit begs of him, separating and deciphering the syntax of her with his tongue and mouth. He usually closes his eyes for this ancient and most holy of acts—what in the fourteen Shards could be better than _this_?—but he meets her eyes this time, drinks in the sight of her.

Anyone else would have looked debauched, taken advantage of, huffy and irritable. Perched up on her arms, leather tunic unlaced and the thin camise beneath rucked up over those wonderful pert breasts of hers. His bites, old and new, scattered on her lovely conquerer’s body. Was this how the beast tribes felt, so implored by devotion and love alone they’d sacrifice everything to summon their primals again? Hydaelyn might have laid claim to her, and her soul as old and spliced as Amarout, but he’s laid claim to her pretty tits a thousand times over this week _alone,_ and no one on this damned Shard had memorized the hairpin curve of her waist like he had.

And certainly, with his mouth fitted around her as she squeaks and trembles and mewls, no one had ever had her quite like _this._

The Crystal Exarch would have sooner given up on the First than try to lay claim to the Warrior of Light in such a shameless way.

G’raha Tia did it with relish.

He fiddles his tongue with the swollen pearl at the top of her slit, watches her squirm and slam a hasty hand over her mouth. Watches how her ribs slide under her flesh—he was going to make her eat more, he’d make _damn_ certain she never swapped another meal for work in her life, now that he was with her, _always._

“You scream like that,” he punctuates his words with long, desperate kisses to her core, thrilling in the obscene noises they make, “and Krile _will_ hear you.”

“Well, whose fault is that?!” She fusses, hitching into a shriek when he shoves two gloved fingers into her without ceremony. She’s wet enough she didn’t need the preamble. She’s always been a tight thing, clenched around his cock so fiercely sometimes he _hopes_ he might be cleaved to her forever. But somehow the thin layer of his glove makes her feel, impossibly, even tighter, he can feel every quiver of her clenching muscles, thinks if he stays perfectly still he could differentiate the blood thrumming in her veins. Would he have felt that with his crystal hand, he wondered? Would she have felt the raised gold veins or the harsh edges at the pads of his fingers as he fucked her into oblivion?

Too late for such experiments, he smiles to himself as he withdraws, fits a third into her, feels her clench, watches her poorly stifle a scream into her fist. “We shouldn’t,” she moans, breathless and hasty as she fucks his fingers with her hips. Digs the heel of her boot into his back to keep him there, as if he would _dream_ of leaving. He pulls out of her, silences her snarl of protest with the same fingers in her mouth. Buries his face in her cunt again as she tongues the gloved leather, dragging her teeth across his knuckles as she moans around them the same way she choked on his cock earlier this morning.

“I could die here,” he tells her, nothing but truth and her slick dripping from his tongue, “doing this, for you, on this throne. Watching you come, _tasting_ your cum.”

“You are so…!” He twists his tongue in her till it hurts, thumbing at her clit and waiting expectantly for her.

“Yes?”

“ _Bad,”_ she huffs, clenching her thighs around his head again. His own breath is difficult to catch because he can _feel_ her climax rippling through her. Could you sense someone’s orgasm on the aether? It certainly required further experimentation. G'raha grabs her thighs in his two whole, spoken hands, relishing in the strength of them, pushes them together and _up_ , presses his face into the slick cleft of her cunt. She might look a little harassed now, bordering on debauched and just maybe taken advantage of, but no matter.

“I want you to fuck me, Raha,” she keens, and she is a slippery decadent thing on the sovereign’s seat. “Please?”

Ah, she knows him well, too. Knows how he can’t say no to her, no matter how hare-brained or agonizing her request is. _That_ was unchanged, as constant as the Tower itself since he first set sight on those blazing eyes in the Mor Dhona wilderness. He’d wanted to taste her come on his tongue, but this would do.

“Only if you come for me,” he tells her, struggling with the unfamiliar buttons on his trousers. Thank the _Twelve_ they were loose, he would have tried to bury his cock in her far too soon in his old stiff leggings. “Come on my cock, please? Can you do that, my love?”

She nods, obedient and pliant as he fits the swollen head between her folds. _Relishes_ in how dripping wet she is. He didn’t even need to tease her, he knows she would’ve been this wet on anticipation alone and that thought alone gives him pause, the thought that she wanted this as badly as he did, in the same ways he wanted. 

He’s rewarded with a broken cry when he snaps his hips into her. Digs his hands hard enough into her haunches to bruise—not that she minded. He knew perfectly well how she admired her bruises when she thought he wasn’t looking in the mornings.

There were a lot of things, he knew now, he didn’t know a week ago.

How her face contorts from pain to bliss to fiery determination with each thrust. How she claws at him to get ever closer, no matter how contorted their position. How her bottom lip curls with a dogged smile as he fucks her so hard he thinks _surely_ this must be hurting her, surely she’ll beg him to stop, but she never does. She _belongs_ on the throne in a way he never will, and he her servile supplicant. He knows the way she’s trying to stave off her orgasm with how she tosses her head to the side, silken hair stuck to her face with sweat, biting down on her fist hard enough to draw blood.

“If you don’t come,” he threatens, sliding out of her languidly only to drive an indignant squeak out of her with a lazy pump of his hips into hers, “they’re going to find us, and _then_ what will you do? What will you say, when you're caught fucking me on the crystal throne?”

“They know we’re fucking, anyway,” she huffs, dragging nails which had branded his back and chest countless times this week alone down his chest before turning into a vise grip and tugging on his scarf, doubling him over. The kiss is all tongue, sloppy and languid, her teeth dragging his bottom lip through them so hard he fears she’s drawn blood, is taken by surprise by how he _wishes_ she would. And then she moves to his neck, sharp little teeth nipping and her purrs of satisfaction rumbling against his skin.

She makes it extraordinarily difficult to last.

Fucking her desperately, bowed over her body, he finishes in her with a broken shout before she tugs his lips to hers again, moaning her contentment as he pumps into her with helpless spasms. She’s let him come in her a dozen times this week alone and the _thrill_ of it all hasn’t worn it’s welcome an ilm.

The second he catches his breath, smiling down at his feral queen, his ears twitch and swivel; Krile was on their level now, talking loudly to Rammbroes. He wrenches out of her with a start, helping her pull her own leggings up, righting her tunic before hurriedly tugging up his own pants.

“Ah, Raha!” Krile sighs with relief when she catches sight of them, breathless but dressed. The Warrior is lingering on the throne still, looking just short of winded as she brushes her hair into orderliness. “How goes the preparations for the barrier?”

“Excellent, my friend.” G’raha proffers the book he’d came all this way to retrieve. To be fair, they'd taken _somewhat_ of a detour, distracted by flirtation and dark suggestions. “This should have all the necessary calculations. Did your men find everything you wanted, Rammbroes?”

Rammbroes laughs, a booming roar which nearly vibrates the very floor. “All that and more. If there’s aught we have missed, it can always be looked upon when you have time during your travels." He pauses, cocking his head toward the Warrior. "Warrior, is everything alright—?”

“—Perfectly fine!” She squeaks, standing abruptly. He notices immediately how she stands with her legs pressed together, and he bites his tongue against grinning at her discomfort. She glances up at him, and perhaps she sees the bloodlust still there from minutes ago, because she looks immediately away as if shocked.

Krile raises a brow, but keeps her peace. Perhaps she’s chalked it up to the Warrior’s characteristic eccentricity. “If all is in order, let’s descend this treacherous thing. If the Twelve have any sense of mercy, Tataru will have prepared lunch for us by the time we return.” She totters ahead to catch up with Rammbroes, and G’raha leans down to whisper into the Warrior’s ear.

_“How’s it feel, dripping out of you?”_

“You…!” She swats him, grinning despite herself. “You’re awful, you know that?"

“My friend, I have _no idea_ what you’re talking about,” he says loudly enough to catch Krile’s ear, his grin fairly splitting as she fumes at him.

“No wonder Alisaie’s sick of you two,” Krile calls over her shoulder. “Come on!”

She graces him with a look that assures him he'll regret his cheek, and he can't help but look forward to his retribution. 

**Author's Note:**

> [my carrd.](https://thepapernautilus.carrd.co/)   
> 


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